The Bride Price (27 page)

“They are coming! They are coming! With many camels!”

The women rushed out to welcome the returning warriors. Driving the herd before them, the men rode into camp, tired and dusty, but triumphant. Badly needed skins of water and food hung over their saddles. Herdsmen ran to meet the victors, their elation balanced by the hard work that lay ahead of them.

The men dismounted in front of their tents without a word of greeting to their wives. But their happiness showed on their faces and could wait until they were alone with their women. All but Nassar were beaming.

He stormed past Bryna and Pamela and threw himself down on the pillows in his
majlis.
Nothing had gone as he wished. His flabby body ached from the swift ride across the desert. And his pride hurt because it had been Sa’id who had led the second group when Sharif split the band for attack. Then, to add insult to injury, the sheik had prevented him from killing one of their foes.

“Camels, not blood,” Sharif had roared at his nephew over the din as the men thundered through the enemy camp.

Ya Amm
Sharif, you will not always be chief, the young man thought petulantly. When he became sheik, the name Selim would be feared by all Aribi.

The young Arab pouted in his tent while outside, the present leader of the tribe announced gladly, “Tonight there is water for coffee. We will speak of the
ghazzi
over the campfire. Tomorrow we will feast. We will dance the
ardha
and celebrate!”

When Bryna rose at dawn, the delicious aroma of roasting meat filled the desert air. The servants were already gathered around a pit, arguing about the best way to cook camel.

There was a festive mood in the camp even before the races and the shooting contests took place. At about midday the men went to Sharif’s
majlis,
where they were served from several great dishes of meat over rice, captured from their enemy.

When everyone had finished eating, the women formed a large circle, and in the middle the men danced, their swords flashing in the sunlight. Among the jubilant dancers, Sharif whirled gracefully, his robes and kaffiyeh swinging in the desert breeze. When his searching eyes found Bryna, he smiled unexpectedly, happiness transforming his rugged face at the very sight of her.

The girl smiled tentatively in return, but as always with Sharif, she felt a tempest of unexpected desire. Afraid everyone would read her emotions on her face, she was almost glad when a tug on her aba distracted her.

`Abla was beside her, her little face alight with happiness.

“Is today not a glorious day, Bryna?” she asked blissfully.

Lifting her gaze, Bryna saw that Sharif still watched from the corner of his eye. Though he did not look at them directly, his smile broadened even more when he saw his daughter with Bryna.

The feelings Sharif Al Selim roused in her could only cause trouble, Bryna thought fleetingly. She belonged to Nassar, and Sharif was forbidden to her.

But then, inexplicably filled with joy, she thrust the thought from her. She put her arm around `Abla and smiled radiantly at the little girl’s father.

“Indeed,
chère,”
Bryna whispered, “it is the most glorious day I have known for a very long time.”

After the victory celebration at
Bir
al Selim, the
smala
resumed its seemingly endless journey. Despite the supplies Sharif’s men had taken on their raid, food and water were still rationed. Every drop of water was precious, for now they had even more camels than before. There was not even enough for coffee, but the Bedu had no fear. With their sheik’s careful planning, they would soon reach the next well, where they would rest.

The tribe seemed reasonably content as they rode through the arid, unchanging landscape. Even Sharif smiled now and then when one of his men would offer casually to trade one of the camels that had been his share of the booty. The others would take up their part of the game with enthusiasm, discussing the finer points of various camels. They bargained affably for hours without the least intention of trading.

Listening to their voices as they floated back from the front of the caravan, Bryna smiled, too, knowing the game was a way to pass the time on the long march. Each negotiation invariably ended with the phrase
Yafteh Allah,
which meant “Allah opens the door of daily bread,” a way of saying the traders were not really likely to do business.

As they traveled, she was pleased to note improvements in Pamela’s health, despite the lacks in a desert diet. Even though the English girl was still pale and wan, her lackluster stare brightened now that she and Bryna were no longer summoned to tea by Fatmah. By the time they reached the well, Pamela had recovered her appetite and was more like her old self.

Sharif’s
smala
had been camped beside the well for a few days when Smemi’s bugling bark heralded the approach of visitors. The men rode on horseback, which meant they had come from a short distance away. The women were hastily sent to the tents, and Sharif greeted the callers as they entered the camp.

“What is the news?” he called cordially.

“The news is good, praise Allah,” they responded genially. “What is the news with you?”

“None but good.”

When they dismounted, Sharif invited the callers to his tent for coffee. The visitors joined the sheik and his men in the
majlis,
where they were offered bread and salt as honored guests. In turn they invited Sharif’s camp to join them for a wedding feast that night. The sheik accepted but warned that only his family and the family of his nephew would be there. He could not leave the camp unguarded.

Learning they were to visit another camp that night, Bryna worked quickly to complete the
ghata
she was making for `Abla. The white fabric was intricately worked in bright blue and red thread with glints of silver running through them. Yes, she thought, her little friend was going to be pleased.

But Bryna did not know how pleased until she saw the joy in `Abla’s gray eyes. “Oh, Bryna, it is so beautiful! Are you sure it is for me?”

“Yes...and this.” She held out a small square of the same gauzy fabric. “Since your father said you must veil yourself soon, I thought it would be nice if the veil matched the
ghata.”

“I have never had anything so beautiful!” Immediately the child threw the embroidered
ghata
over her tousled ringlets and ran to show Fatmah and Latifeh. Then, taking her friend’s hand, she skipped along beside her to Nassar’s tent, where the young man lounged idly in his open
majlis.

“See what I got, Nassar!” `Abla pirouetted around her cousin.

“Where did you get it?” He glanced at her without much interest.

“Bryna gave it to me,” the little girl chattered happily.

“You gave it to her?” He looked at Bryna questioningly. Then, catching the edge of the headdress, the man tugged it from `Abla’s head and examined it. ‘‘Why?’’ he asked, glaring critically his American slave.

“It was a birthday gift,” Bryna retorted. Without thinking, she snatched the
ghata
from Nassar’s hands and returned it to `Abla.

When Nassar sat up, his dark eyes narrowed dangerously, Bryna knew she had gone too far. Feeling one of his tantrums coming, she turned to the child. “You’d better go and put that away for now, if you want it to look nice for tonight.”

“Oh, that’s right,” `Abla crowed with delight. “I can wear it to the wedding. I will look so beautiful. You’ll see, Bryna,” she called over her shoulder, running off toward Sharif’s tent.

After a moment of ominous silence, Nassar got to his feet slowly. “Why did you embarrass me in front of my
bint ‘amm,
woman? And why did you give that
ghata
to her? It is much too fine for a child.”

“It was a gift,” Bryna answered, displaying more calm than she felt, for she knew she had never borne the full brunt of Nassar’s temper. By defying him openly, she had given him a reason to punish her.

“Tell `Abla you want the
ghata
back,” he ordered, advancing a step toward her. “It will look much better on Pamela.”

“I will not.” The girl’s voice was low but determined. She held her ground, refusing to retreat.

“Wallahi, you defy me?” Nassar bellowed. “Do not make me beat you. It is too hot.”

“I made it for `Abla,” Bryna maintained staunchly. “I will make another for Pamela, if you like.”

“You are my slave,” he snapped furiously. “I give you the food you eat, the clothes you wear, and the threads you use to embroider. The fruit of your labors are mine, just as you are mine.”

Bryna struggled to contain her own temper. “You may give me food and clothing,” she said, “but you did not give me the threads for that
ghata.
Umm Walid gave them to me. I worked on it only after my chores were done. That
ghata
was mine to do with as I pleased.”

“Perhaps it is not too hot for a beating after all. Then I will prove to you who your master is.” Gripping her arm tightly, Nassar pulled the resisting girl toward him, finding suddenly that he liked the idea of punishing her. It aroused him to think of humbling her at last. His breath was hot on Bryna’s face as he ripped off her veil and kissed her with wet lips and probing tongue. It had been too long since he had had a woman. The prostitutes in the Saluba camp offered only momentary satisfaction.

“Nassar...” Pamela’s voice floated from the women’s quarters, where she had been listening.

“What?” he roared. His mind on taming Bryna, he was annoyed by the interruption.

“If you are truly going to have Bryna make a
ghata
for me, may I have a pink one?” Coming into the
majlis,
the English girl put a hand on Nassar’s arm and smiled up at him enticingly.

The moment the Arab’s grip loosened on her, Bryna retreated. She scrubbed at her mouth with the back of her hand as if she could remove even the memory of his sodden kiss. Nassar did not see. He stared down at Pamela, all thought of the dark-haired girl forgotten. How often he had longed for his blond houri to look at him so. He sank down on the pillows, pulling Pamela with him.

“Pink, with golden threads,” she wheedled prettily, throwing quick warning glances toward her friend. “She will do it if you ask. Please,
sidi.”

“Make a
ghata
for Pamela, Bryna bint Blaine, of pink silk,” he ordered arrogantly. “And have it finished by the time we reach Riyadh.” Lying back, he pulled Pamela down so her head rested on his shoulder. A reluctant houri, the English girl gazed at her friend with beseeching brown eyes. If Bryna protested, this diversion, so distasteful to her, would be for nothing.

“I...I would be happy to, but I have no pink silk,” Bryna said hesitantly.

“Then buy some. We come to a town soon.” Nassar tossed several copper
tawilahs
at Bryna’s feet. When she had picked up the coins, he gestured for her to leave.

Bryna ducked out of the open tent and into the blinding sunlight. Sharif stood nearby, his face stark with anger. He had witnessed the entire scene, she realized, and would probably speak to Nassar about allowing such shows of temper from his slaves. She walked away quickly, feeling sick, knowing his narrowed gray eyes were upon her.

* * *

Bryna kept to herself at the wedding and for days afterward. Tension filled the air each time she caught sight of Sharif, for his gray eyes seemed to smolder with contained anger. She was relieved when the
smala
moved on and the sheik turned his mind to other things.

Sharif was also grateful, for he wanted nothing more than to forget the sight of Nassar forcing his kisses on the unwilling girl. It was not his affair, he kept reminding himself. But he watched over her nevertheless, failing to understand why she avoided him, refusing to meet his eyes.

After several days of travel, Fatmah visited Bryna. Once she had received the respectful hospitality due her, the old woman said reluctantly, as one
umm al’-ayyal
to another. “Bryna bint Blaine, I have come to tell you it is my husband’s wish that Nassar and his women accompany us to
Kasr
al Haroun tomorrow.”

“Kasr
al Haroun?”

“A small town where we will buy food and visit the merchant Faud al Haroun, an old friend of my husband’s family.” Fatmah added darkly, “You can see it is important that neither you nor Pamela bint Harold do anything to dishonor our name. You represent the household of a great sheik. Take care to behave properly.” Then old woman rose to her feet with painful dignity.

Despite her dislike for Fatmah, Bryna said sympathetically, “I see your legs are paining you, my lady. Will you take some ointment I have made?”

The woman accepted her offering with a grudging smile. Before she limped to her tent, she turned to Bryna gravely. “For your own good, remember what I have told you. I cannot say for sure what my lord Sharif would do, but if you dishonor my son, I know he will kill you.”

As the
smala
neared a well the next day, Sharif’s family veered off from the others and rode toward
Kasr
al Haroun. Bryna sat sedately in a camel litter, yet she was excited at the very prospect of a trip to a town. She clung desperately to the idea of escape. Where there were people, she might find help, she thought hopefully, but her plans were shattered by her first sight of the dusty settlement in the distance, its squat buildings barely discernible on the horizon.

This was hardly worth wearing a
burqu,
the girl thought uncharitably, for the town looked no better when they approached it through parched, terraced fields. At the outskirts were a large well and several camel-powered mills for grinding meal.

In single file the Selim camels passed through the narrow streets. First Sharif, then Nassar, then Sharif’s women, followed by Bryna and Pamela. Abu Ahmad, Sharif’s servant, brought up the rear with the pack camels.